


Behind the Moon, Beyond the Rain

by Cameron_McKell



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk (2008), The Wizard Of Oz (1939), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Dream Logic, Gen, M/M, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, Written Before Phase 2, disturbing imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 09:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cameron_McKell/pseuds/Cameron_McKell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't quite remember what happened, or how he got here, but he had to get home.</p><p>He had a date.</p><p>He couldn't be late again, not this time.</p><p>Steve's heels clicked together briefly as he turned then started walking once more.</p><p>... The Director would help him. Hopefully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Moon, Beyond the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Accompanying artwork for this story was done by LiveJournal user _afterism and can be found here ( http://users.livejournal.com/_afterism/242634.html ); I'm flattered and very grateful that they chose to make art for my story. It is so amazing, seriously, go stare at the pretty art!
> 
> Thank you to enochiansigils over on LiveJournal for beta-ing my story; I'd never had a beta before, and they were great.
> 
> A big thank you for everyone over at the marvel_bang community ( http://marvel-bang.livejournal.com/ ) for arranging this whole thing; check out their page for many cool stories.

“ - but I still fail to understand _why,_ Captain.”

 

“Because if she'd fought them,” Steve replied, pausing momentarily to fling his shield at the nearest cluster of enemies, before continuing, “they would have dropped her, and the fall would've killed her.”

 

Steve spun around behind one of their enemies to catch his shield, then kicked him – her? it? what do you call winged ape-people carrying poisoned spears anyhow? – in the back, sending them stumbling right into the path of Mjolnir; it didn't end well for the ape-man.

 

“A sound decision for someone incapable of flight, I agree. Why did she not immediately escape upon landing, though?”

 

“Because, big guy,” Tony cut in, swooping down low overhead in his latest suit, targeting the aliens' – or were they from a parallel universe? all the 'situations' this month were starting to blur together – wings and doing _just_ enough damage to keep them grounded, and greatly hinder their mobility; if you weren't actively using them to fly, wings were generally large, awkward things, and skewed one's sense of balance and center of gravity. “Movie convention at the time didn't really hold to the idea of distressed damsels rescuing themselves.”

 

“It also created an opportunity for the minor characters to grow as people,” Natasha cut in, electrocuting one ape-man before sliding between the legs of another, “It's the catalyst event for them discovering their own compassion, bravery, and intelligence, instead of relying on hers, which is important-” she paused for a moment while ducking sideways, so as to avoid an incoming spear, then promptly disarmed her opponent, and turned its own spear back on it, “because they're the ones that get left behind to run the country, while she goes home to the farm.”

 

“There is more to the story than what the 'movie' shows, then?” Thor clarified, building up a charge of lightning.

 

“Why are you guys even _talking_ about this?” Clint cut in, then fired an arrow carrying a powerful corrosive at the base of a statue; it ate through the iron horse's legs, toppling several hundred pounds of iron onto a pair of ape-men, but Steve made a note to have a discussion with the archer about 'necessary' and 'unnecessary' property damage, and the difference between the two. “Seriously, we watched that movie _months_ ago.”

 

“Look at what you're fighting, and say that again,” Tony quipped back, landing long enough to pull off one of the disarmed ape-men that had Steve in a headlock; unable to verbalize his thanks for the moment, Steve nodded and sort of smiled, then, just when he was about to manage the speaking, Tony took off with the flightless ape-man in tow, and promptly dropped him on a pack of friends like vertical bowling.

 

Steve stared after him for a moment, then mentally shook himself and waded back into the fray. “The movie was based off of some books; I always meant to read them, but I never found the time, or opportunity.” He punched, shield-first, into the face of three ape-men in quick succession, then had to abort the follow-up throw to deflect a counterattack of hairy fists, and strangely-armored feet. “I heard there was a lot of symbolism in them that caused some controversy!” He had to shout to be heard over the sound of flesh-on-vibranium. “All I know for sure, though, is that they changed the shoes to show off the color filming; they were originally silver.”

 

“That must have been a sight to see back in the day, Cap,” Clint observed, having finally given in to the inevitability of the conversation. He paused to shield his eyes while Thor finally released the built-up electricity, frying whole swathes of the possibly-aliens, possibly-denizens-of-an-alternate-Earth, but not quite badly enough to kill them. It was probably why he didn't see the three ape-men – possibly the last three capable of flight at this point, sneaking up on his perch from behind.

 

“You act like it was the first time I saw a show in col- Hawkeye! Six-o'clock!” Steve warned urgently, only to watch Clint's automatic turn-and-draw pause as the Hulk came crashing down on two of the three sneaking up behind him – which was a feat, considering that there were no taller buildings in the area from which to jump down – then grabbed the third in one massive green fist, and summarily smashed the ape-man through the rooftop. Just as the Hulk was about to bound away to destroy something else, one of the ape-men he'd landed on attempted to stab into his foot with his poisoned spear; the spearhead broke off from the shaft and got stuck between Hulk's toes, but didn't manage to break skin. He looked at it there for a moment, then turned his attention to the broken ape-man with a savage smile.

 

Steve tuned his awareness back into his own fight instead of running on instinct and reflexes, just in time to line up a throw, which he made at a run; he vaulted over fallen bodies, chunks of buildings, and burning vehicles to get into position, while his shield ricocheted from one of Natasha's opponents, to a light pole, clipping through the tops of one ape-man's wings and nearly severing them entirely, off a car door, and finally back to Steve's newly-arrived waiting hands, and for a moment he was nearly overcome by déjà vu of a faraway time and place, and pulling these same stunts back then. He couldn't let it freeze him up though, so he focused in on the nearest visual difference, and flung himself at the circle of destruction that was Tony, momentarily on the ground, taking potshots at anything not Avenger-shaped that came at him.

 

“Hey, Cap,” Tony greeted him with forced cheerfulness as Steve somersaulted under his latest volley, only to come back up swinging at simian kneecaps. “I'm thinking we should have a re-watching party after this, hash out all the opinions and conflicting information all at once; sound good to you?”

 

Steve caught a spear thrust on his shield and deflected it, before answering with an uppercut, “Everyone's heading out of town, remember? Thor was planning to go visit Jane, and _Bruce_ -,” the name was emphasized with a grunt as Steve threw his attacker – there was a good, all-encompassing word for them, 'attacker' – straight into Tony's metal-clad fist, “has to get back to that conference. Natasha and Clint are still _technically_ on assignment in Canada, and Bucky's in _Asia,_ so there's no one to watch with.”

 

“Glad to know you think I'm nothing,” he replied; Steve looked over at him, horrified by his own accidental implication, and Tony laughed, “ _Relax,_ Bottle Cap; I was joking. So we wait on the team re-watching special,” he paused just long enough to duck out of the way of a chunk of concrete that was apparently not very effective as an improvised weapon, “The two of us will just have to have our own little movie date tonight instead.”

 

Steve faltered for just a moment at Tony's words, but soon got a hold of himself again; unfortunately it was time enough for his opponent to slip his hold. “Just the two of us?” Tony nodded in the suit, and Steve turned to follow his opponent, who was now trying to slip behind him. “Like a real date?” He wasn't looking toward him at the moment, so Tony mumbled a somewhat distracted 'yeah' as he engaged his own target. Time seemed to slow down, as months of dancing around the subject finally gave way to a deceptively simple question.

 

“Well, I-,” he started, only to come stuttering to a stop. He could feel himself flushing with heat, while his hands and feet – and, oddly, the general area of his right side – went numb; his tongue suddenly seemed three sizes too large for his mouth, thick, heavy and useless, so he didn't even try to say anything more. The world began to spin at a dizzying rate around him, and he dimly registered that he was on the ground; for a moment, Steve thought he heard someone saying his name, but that thought was gone almost as soon as it appeared, back into the senseless spinning.

 

Steve vaguely thought about how embarrassing it was that he was overreacting to Tony's question this way, before he fainted.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve opened his eyes with a soft groan, then slowly sat up.

 

“Ah, you've awakened.”

 

His attention snapped over to the voice that had addressed him; it was Thor, and Steve automatically relaxed again at the sight of him. Thor had his hammer in hand, and was wearing the winged helmet he occasionally favored, but something struck Steve as a bit odd.

 

It might have something to do with the fact that the rest of his outfit – cape, armor, everything – was sparkly and pink.

 

“Thor? What happened?” Steve asked as he stood up, one hand absently pressed to his right side. The street around them was empty and quiet, goldenrod asphalt interrupted only by their bodies, and the occasional black traffic line. Both sides of the street were hemmed in with buildings that came up to about Steve's chest height, brightly colored but empty. Steve still felt a bit muddled, but that all seemed about right.

 

“You crashed here, right on top of the evil Witch of the East.” He gestured behind Steve, and Steve turned to look.

 

A great furrow had been gouged into the street, and there, at the end of it, was a massive, familiar silver plane, one wing buried deep into the ground, while the other still pointed brokenly toward the sky. He unconsciously started walking back toward the wreckage – and it made sense that he must have climbed out of it, because how else did his clothing get so torn up? – until he saw a dark shape, half-pinned under a clearer portion of the plane's nose.

 

He moved to get closer – he could just make out something black and vaguely military, and boots, and _red_ – when Thor's hand landed heavily on his shoulder, and pulled him aside. “They hail you as a hero, here; you took everything the Witch had, all his power that made him special, and used it against him, to save everyone.”

 

“'Here'?” Steve focused in on this pertinent bit of information; where was he? He had to get back home; he had a date, and he didn't dare be late to it. Thor nodded, then gestured expansively along the tops of the brightly colored houses. “This is America-land, the land of the Americans. I'm afraid they are all hiding because of your crash; come, little Americans! All is well; come and meet your hero!”

 

A quiet murmuring began from the various buildings, then all at once people began to appear from amidst the buildings, brightly dressed in their Victory Day best, smiles wide and touched with awe, and maybe just a little fear. They looked up to him with joy, and it made Steve dizzy for a moment; he still wasn't used to people looking up to him, and probably never would be. At the moment, though, he couldn't say why...

 

The tiny Americans began to sing and dance about in celebration, but even as it occurred Steve couldn't have managed to describe it, save as a general impression of music, color, and good cheer. It all sort of swam before his eyes, and left a strange ache in his right side. He went to hold a hand there, and just as his fingertips touched the spot – feeling something _wet_ even through his tattered red gloves – three American women in blue tops and red-and-white striped skirts rode up on a little motorcycle with almost painfully sharp clarity.

 

They walked right up to him, humming in perfect harmony, until they were staring straight at his shins. Obligingly, he crouched down closer to their eye level, and the first two women – wearing blue motorcycle helmets with a little white 'U' and 'S' on them, respectively – reached up to peck him on each cheek, then walked back to the bike. The last woman, brunette hair still perfectly curled under her blue 'A' motorcycle helmet, gave him a sort of knowingly sad smile, then kissed him right on the lips. Steve felt an odd sort of loss as she joined the other two girls on the bike, at least until she turned to flash him a last, determinedly happy smile as they drove off.

 

Before Steve could ask about them, and how he _knew_ that brunette, a couple of men in surprisingly somber suits materialized from the background of happy Americans. Their leader – or, at least Steve assumed he was the leader – was wearing glasses, and carrying a proportionately large, black and red box. They then advanced on him in his crouched position, touching the shield on his arm in awe. He smiled uncertainly, until he realized they were trying to slip the shield off his arm, take it away from him. Abruptly, he pulled away and stood, clutching to the shield and what it meant to him, what it made him. The somberly suited men raised their hands to placate him, then backed off.

 

Suddenly, there was another man in a suit with them, this one wearing sunglasses. He walked up to the suited men, then past them, to stand on the black and red box. Then he smiled at Steve.

 

“On behalf of all of America-land, thank you. We needed a hero, and you were the man for the job.”

 

“Thank you, Agent Coulson,” he replied, the man's name rolling easily off his tongue as if he'd known it all along. “I need to be getting home, though. You see, I have a date.”

 

Agent Coulson eyed him curiously, “You have a date?”

 

“Tonight, eight-o'clock at the Stork Tower; I can't be late again.” Steve confirmed, suddenly dizzy.

 

The feeling passed abruptly, though, when Thor stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder, “You need to see the Director, then.”

 

“ _No_ one is going _anywhere_!” a new voice interrupted.

 

There was an explosion of light and sound right in front of Steve, just behind the suited men; he instinctively raised his shield in front of himself while all the tiny Americans threw themselves to the ground. The explosion was suddenly replaced with a man, green and black, wearing a strange hat, and holding a distinctive and powerful stick. He smiled threateningly at Thor and Steve.

 

“The Wicked Witch of the West,” Thor explained and greeted both.

 

“You have something that I need,” the Wicked Witch declared, eyes intent on Steve; he gestured down at Steve's boots with his staff, “Surrender them to me; you wouldn't begin to understand how to use something as complex as they are anyway, little soldier. Or anything else, really.”

 

“Do not do as he says,” Thor countered over Steve's shoulder, “He would trick your strengths away from you, and then destroy you.” Here, he turned to address the Wicked Witch, expression suddenly immeasurably sad, “Begone, Witch; you have no power in this place, and will find no one to subjugate here.”

 

The Witch's furious gaze turned on Thor, then, “They won't always fall under your protection, _Brother_ , and when that happens...” He trailed off, and the glance he threw toward Steve made his skin crawl, “I will wait, and then I will be King over all of them.”

 

With another explosion of sound and light, the Witch was gone as suddenly as he'd appeared.

 

After he'd been gone for an indistinct amount of time, the tiny Americans began to pick themselves back up; Agent Coulson picked up his sunglasses where they'd fallen onto the golden street, then casually slipped them back on. “If the Witch is after you, you'll need help to get to the Director, at the Emerald Carrier. It's dangerous to go alone, and you fight best with a team. This should help.”

 

Steve didn't question how the agent knew all this – and why wouldn’t he know? – and instead just nodded, watching as he opened the black and red box, and a large spider crawled out. She was poised and elegant for her size, sleek black, with a splash of vivid red – in an hourglass figure – and Steve was overcome by a strong sense of déjà vu as he gazed upon her.

 

“Poison,” he mumbled absently, one hand ghosting over his right side.

 

The moment passed as she crawled up his back, and delicately clung to his shoulders. Thor turned Steve until he was looking down the goldenrod street, with the strange silver plane behind him, “Go, Captain of America-land; find the Director of SHIELD; he will help you find your home.”

 

Steve glanced back uncertainly at the tiny Americans, all cheering him onward toward the future, and then started off down the road.

 

* * *

 

 

His journey seemed to be one outside of time; things around him were moving and changing, but he was removed from it himself, separate.

 

If he wasn't walking, he'd have said he was frozen, but that couldn't be right.

 

The quaint, little buildings of America-land soon gave way to a misty, forbidding no man's land, bare earth occasionally broken by muddy craters, dragon's teeth, and barbed wire. Indistinct shapes danced in his peripheral vision, while the whistle of falling bombs and patter of automatic fire teased just at the edge of hearing.

 

If it wasn't for the road – thinner and less distinct here, but still that vibrant goldenrod color – and the reassuring, shifting weight on his back, he could easily have become lost in this space, and never find his way back home.

 

As it was, he soldiered on, trying to ignore that stuck-in-time feeling, and eventually came to a fork in the road.

 

There was a field between it.

 

It was a field of broken soldiers, sometimes whole, sometimes just pieces of them, scattered haphazardly in the reddish mud. There were all manner and color of uniforms present – brown, black, white, gray, camouflage, and just about every shade of green and khaki imaginable – as well as pillars of various helmets and armaments. He thought he caught sight of a bowler hat on one such stack, and had to pry his gaze away, back to the roads.

 

But which way should he go?

 

“That depends on where you're headed,” a familiar voice replied as if he'd spoken aloud.

 

Steve looked forward to the field again; right in front of him, there was now a T-frame made of railroad ties, and shackled to it was Bucky. There were bands of metal around his legs, chest, and right wrist holding him to the railroad ties – his left arm, sleeve and all, was missing – in such a way that his boots dangled several inches above the ground.

 

“That way's nice,” Bucky continued, rolling his head and drug-bleary eyes to his left, Steve's right, “but that way's okay, too,” he finished, gesturing again with his head toward the other fork in the road, his right, Steve's left.

 

“Are you here to scare away the crows?” Steve asked, stepping into the field to get closer to him; his feet sank in the mud a little, and somehow he knew, if he lingered too long in this place, he'd sink in all the way and drown. Disappear.

 

“Just another broken soldier.” Bucky's head lolled forward, but he looked up at Steve with slightly clearer eyes. “Where are you headed?”

 

“I'm going to see the director, so I can go home. I have a date I need to get to,” Steve replied, reaching a hand out to the shackle of metal around his right wrist, and breaking it without thought. “Would you like to come with me?”

 

“That would be nice, only I'm broken, you see-” he looked significantly to his missing left arm, “and I've lost my mind somewhere. Have you seen it?”

 

“I'm afraid I haven't, not for a long time, at least,” Steve replied, and started hunting around for Bucky's missing pieces; eventually he found an arm that looked close, though the sleeve was the wrong color, and the flesh was almost ashen gray. He held it up so Bucky could see, “Will this do?”

 

Bucky looked at it for a while, then gave a weak shrug, a bit strange looking in that he only had the one arm currently. “Close enough for me.”

 

Steve held the new arm up to Bucky's empty shoulder, trying to figure out how to make him whole again. Just as he started to worry about what to do, the Black Widow crawled over his shoulder and down his arm, to stitch the pieces together with spider-silk. Once again, Steve was overcome by the feeling of déjà vu, and as soon as Bucky took hold of the arm himself, holding it in place while the Black Widow worked, he fluttered his fingers against his right side.

 

“Poison,” he mumbled softly, eyes drifting down. His gaze was caught on the way to wherever it was going, by the sight of the remaining bands of metal  
trapping Bucky in this bloodied field.

 

Seeing the remaining shackles brought him back to the matter at hand, and he bent to break the ones around his legs first, then quickly straightened to release the final one around his chest – now wedged in his armpits – and caught Bucky as he stumbled, both feet on the ground once more.

 

Her work now finished, the Black Widow quickly skittered across Bucky and Steve's hold on each other, settling in once again to guard Steve's back.

 

“I've still lost my mind somewhere,” Bucky reminded Steve sadly, but Steve shook his head and smiled.

 

“If the Director can help me get home, I'm sure he can help you find it again.”

 

“Yeah?” Bucky looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded, “Yeah, okay. Only way for me to lose is by giving up, right?”

 

“Can't say no forever,” Steve replied, suddenly battling vertigo as the three of them retreated back onto the road, and took the right fork.

 

* * *

 

 

Their passage through the misty no man's land stretched on forever and no time at all, and soon enough they were trying to carefully navigate their way through a forest of wires, information, and metal. The wind was alive with a dull roar of whispers; gossip and news, trivia and scandal flooded every silent moment, leaving no space open for human interaction.

 

Metal contraptions in all shapes and sizes lined their way, grand monuments all shiny and new crumbling away before their eyes to make way for shinier and newer, rushing headlong ever-forward, all progress for the sake of progress. The feeling of being removed from time grew heavier on Steve's shoulders as they walked until he was positive he would break under the strain.

 

Then he caught sight of a flash of red and gold amongst the contraptions – so different from anything he knew and understood as to appear alien – and everything around them shuddered, ground down, went still and quiet.

 

It was a man of metal – Steve's brain tried to attach the words 'iron' or 'tin' to it, but no, those weren’t right, weren’t his name – with his hands held out in front of him defensively. His back was to the road, and he was hemmed in by a half circle of poor copies, Steve assumed; their appearances were clunky and awkward, though it was clear they were trying to imitate the red and gold man before them, steal everything that made him unique.

 

“We should help him,” Steve concluded into the lifeless silence.

 

“Doesn't look like he needs the help,” Bucky observed, but it wasn't an outright ‘no’, so Steve shook his head in reply and started walking over.

 

The scene remained frozen as they approached, and soon enough they'd drawn level on either side of the metal man, and Steve could finally see his face. It was smooth and nearly featureless, forged to show a sort of detached hostility. There was something underneath, though; Steve knew it, even though he couldn't see it at the moment.

 

There was a circle cut into the middle of the metal man's chest, a void, black and empty, and Steve's throat closed off in unexplained panic.

 

“There's a hole here,” Bucky observed redundantly, tracing a finger slowly around the empty rim.

 

“Something's missing,” Steve replied, “We need to find it.”

 

So they began looking around amongst the still, man-shaped statues; eventually, Steve even felt the Black Widow crawl off down his back to check around. After a while, Steve found himself just staring into that empty hole blankly; it was wrong, so wrong, everything was wrong about this. The world smudged and tilted around him, everything but that red and gold metal man, it wasn't right; again he put a hand to his right side and felt something _wet-_

 

The world straightened out so violently, Steve actually stumbled from the force of it, and looked at the metal man's eyes. They were… looking at something?

 

He felt his gaze pulled around to follow, and there it was; held almost casually in the hand of the largest knock-off metal man – thick and rather bulky, easily head and shoulders taller than the rest – was a cylinder of blue-white light.

 

His first thought at the sight of it was simply, “It’s not square.”

 

Shaking the strange thought out of his head – it dripped slowly out his ears, congealed and smelling of copper – he plucked the blue-white something out of its hand, then walked back over to the red and gold man. Steve looked at the cylinder, turning it this way and that as Bucky walked over, then just shrugged, and slid it into the – wrong, so _wrong_ – hole with a soft 'click'.

 

Steve felt the Black Widow crawling back up to settle on his back again as the metal man staggered backward onto the road, away from him and Bucky, still holding his hands up, which now shone threateningly with that same blue-white light.

 

“What do you think you're doing?” the metal man asked, electronic voice distorted and suspicious.

 

“We're going to see the Director,” Bucky replied simply.

 

“I have a date, so I have to go home, and Bucky's lost his mind,” Steve explained, then tilted his head thoughtfully at the metal man. “Would you like to come with us?”

 

“I don't play well with others,” the metal man replied. “Haven't you heard? I'm heartless.”

 

“Heartless?” Steve repeated, suddenly overwhelmingly sad. “Maybe the Director could help you find your heart, too?”

 

The metal man thought for a while, and Steve knew he was about to turn them down, when an unfortunately-familiar voice interrupted.

 

“Gathering allies, little Captain of America-land?” the Wicked Witch of the West stood on the shoulders of the now-crumbling relic that had held the metal man's missing light. He pointed his staff, glowing with a similar sort of blue light at the group of them. “We can't have that, now can we? Even if they are just a bug, a broken soldier, and a bunch of scraps.”

 

“ _What_ did he call me?” the metal man asked indignantly, but the next moment they were all diving out of the way, as the Witch took a few potshots at them, his staff spitting out bolts of blue fire that mustn’t touch them, Steve was certain of this, then disappeared once more.

 

Steve pushed off of his stomach – he hadn't wanted to fall onto his back and crush the Black Widow – then paused halfway through pulling himself up. There was a metal hand extended in front of his face, to help pull him up. He took it, even as the metal man stared at where the Witch had been.

 

“So now there's that guy,” the metal man observed, and Steve realized he had yet to let go of his hand, so he hastily dropped it; the metal man turned to face him then. “I've changed my mind, Bottle Cap. I think I _will_ come with you, if for no other reason than to show Reindeer Games who's boss. ‘A bunch of scraps’, hmph.”

 

Steve just smiled, then helped to pull Bucky up off the ground, “Thanks, Tony.”

 

The metal man didn't reply, and the name flitted out of Steve's head as easily as it had flitted in, so Steve, Bucky, the Black Widow, and the Metal Man continued down the street.

 

* * *

 

 

The forest of metal and wires seemed less overwhelming with the Metal Man to help them navigate it, but over time it became darker and wilder. The whispering voices didn't return, but were instead replaced with a low, constant hum, underneath a thick, bubbling gurgle. Glass tubes of toxic-bright liquid began to appear, hanging from every surface, but none of them were boiling that Steve could see.

 

The back of his neck itched with the feeling of being watched, though; it felt like hundreds – maybe thousands – of eyes were on him, evaluating, examining his every movement.

 

He could almost feel the cut of the blade as they dissected him.

 

“Nice place,” Bucky observed with badly faked calm, which paradoxically helped to calm Steve some, enough that he could mostly ignore the cold bite of surgical steel dragging slowly over his body; Bucky seemed equally disturbed by this place and its glass chambers – and were those _needles_? – so Steve needed to support him. He didn't have time to focus on his own fear.

 

“No kidding,” the Metal Man replied almost flippantly, clearly not bothered in the least – though it _was_ difficult for Steve to tell with his emotionless mask – by this place; Steve fell back a little, trusting the Metal Man to lead them, while he stuck close to Bucky, occasionally bumping shoulders reassuringly.

 

An angry roar split the air, and suddenly there was a giant crashing through the tubes and metal out onto the road, the same toxic green that could be seen flowing through some of the glass tubes all around them made flesh. They all scattered into the jungle of metal and serums and experimentation. Steve oriented himself just in time to see the angry green giant chasing after his friends, and he had to do something, stand up, keep pushing back.

 

The giant had managed to herd Bucky and the Metal Man into striking distance of each other, and Steve hurried to put himself – and his shield – in between them and the incoming swing. The force of the blow drove Steve deep into the ground while the shield rang with a loud, clear bell tone; the nearby glass shattered with the force of it, splashing brightly colored liquids all about with a mess of hissing, popping, and foiled plans.

 

The giant watched Steve pull himself out of the ground slowly, more confused now than angry; Steve barely glanced at the Metal Man and Bucky to make sure they were all right – they were – and could feel the Black Widow still clutched tightly to his back, so he turned his gaze on the hulking green giant. “Are you a bully?”

 

The giant made a sort of questioning, grunting noise, so Steve elaborated, “We were just passing through on our way to see the Director, and you attacked us for no reason. So, are you a bully, or is this some sort of misunderstanding?”

 

“Hulk smash, stay safe,” the giant – Hulk, apparently – replied, then sort of shrugged and looked away, “Not bully.”

 

“What are you afraid of?” the Metal Man piped in curiously, seemingly unaware, or unconcerned, about the potential danger they were in.

 

“Not afraid!” Hulk replied forcefully with a cutting motion, but betrayed himself by shifting away from them uneasily, “Hulk smash, safe. _Not_ afraid.”

 

Steve thought for a moment, mind unraveling onto tangents of history, and why a powerful giant would be so quick to anger, and prize safety so highly, but then he spooled it back in and stepped forward, shield arm down at his side, “Well, Hulk, you could come with us to see the Director. I know you're not afraid, or anything, but he might have something that could help to keep you safe.”

 

Something about the argument seemed strange to his own ears, but he couldn't place it; it became something of a non-issue, though, when the Hulk nodded, and suddenly shrank down into a normal man, weakly clutching at pants that were now much too large.

 

Steve watched as Bucky and the Metal Man walked around the Smaller Hulk to the road, then watched as the Black Widow climbed down off of Steve's back, carefully spinning a silken drawstring to hold Bruce's pants – Bruce? Yes, that sounded right, Bruce – up on his waist.

 

The same déjà vu came back, stronger than ever, and Steve pressed his hand to his right side, which suddenly _burned_. The burning passed, slowly, and Steve pulled his hand away.

 

It was covered in something sticky and black.

 

Steve stared at it a while, then abruptly forgot what it was he was looking at on his glove, or why, so he wandered back to join everyone on the road.

 

This time, he began leading them through the metal jungle himself, and didn't glance back as the Black Widow jumped from Bruce, to settle once again on Steve's back, aggravating the cut of metal sliding down his back.

 

“Poison,” he mumbled, and didn't know why.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve blinked, and they were at the end of the forest of metal and glass.

 

Instead, before them lay a field of poppies, blood-red and expansive – almost impossibly so – and off on the horizon, far away but looming too large despite that, was the Emerald Carrier.

 

He couldn't help but smile at each of his new friends, and all at once they took off at a run toward the Carrier.

 

They ran and ran, making great time, but seeming to make no progress forward; he worked so hard, but seemed no closer to getting home – perhaps it was an unattainable wish? As if the thought had enabled it, the poppies blurred in Steve's vision, until it was just a wash of red everywhere he looked, slowly spilling over onto the road.

 

He wanted to stop, or at least slow down so he could get his bearings again – where had he been trying to go? – but the back of his neck was itching like being watched again, and he pushed himself faster, past Bruce, and the Metal Man, and Bucky, until he was well into the lead.

 

The world began to tilt again, so Steve tilted with it, but then he felt his right side throb and _gush_ , and the red-blood ground began to drip up into the sky.

 

No.

 

That was wrong, he was just falling down, crashing face first into the sea of red with a splash overlaid with the crunch of metal and glass, and then he couldn't move.

 

Steve could hear his friends calling to him, though he couldn't understand the words – muffled and pleading as they were – and he supposed he should be more worried about all of this, but maybe it would just be easier to sleep this time.

 

Time passed in indistinct increments for a while – but it _was_ passing now – and then it was storming, bright flashes of lightning with deep crashes of thunder.

 

There was white on the red around him suddenly.

 

It was snow; it fell thick and cold around him, _into_ him, until all he was, all he ever would be, was snow and cold, and this seemed right, somehow.

 

He was dead; he was frozen, and this was right.

 

His friends didn't seem to understand this, though, as there were suddenly hands pulling him up out of the white and the cold, and then he was surrounded by warmth. Bruce was on his left, Bucky on his right, the Black Widow on his back, and the Metal Man at his front, while the thunder and lightning still crashed overhead; he had the brief thought that the Metal Man, being made of metal, should be cold, but he was perhaps the warmest of all.

 

“This is no time to be falling asleep, Capsicle,” the Metal Man scolded.

 

“The Emerald Carrier's just ahead,” Bruce continued.

 

“We're almost through to the end of this,” Bucky concluded.

 

He felt the lightest, affectionate nibble at the back of his neck from the Black Widow, even though she didn't say anything, and Steve finally nodded.

 

All the attention was almost overwhelming, in the best possible way.

 

They stayed huddled together around Steve for a moment longer, then helped him get back on his feet. They wiped away the worst of the red Steve had inadvertently transferred to them during the closeness, and continued along the goldenrod asphalt, to the Emerald Carrier looming close over their heads.

 

Steve didn't even register that the feeling of being watched hadn't left, even for a moment.

 

* * *

 

 

Seeing as the Emerald Carrier floated above the ground, Steve was a little unsure about how to go about getting in.

 

“I can't fly,” Steve concluded unhelpfully, after jumping in place several times trying to reach the Carrier's gleaming green underside.

 

“I can, but I wouldn't be able to carry all of you,” the Metal Man announced with a shrug.

 

“What about just part of me?” Bucky asked, already reaching for the stitching  
at his left shoulder.

 

Bruce shook his head while Steve busied himself with keeping Bucky from unraveling himself for their benefit, “We just need another way in.” He looked around for a while, then pointed. “What about that?”

 

The space had been empty before, but Steve looked, and there it was; an emerald quinjet was parked about thirty feet away from them. He idly wondered where the downdraft had wandered off to.

 

They looked at each other, then with a shrug, started off for the quinjet's closed loading ramp.

 

There didn't seem to be a button to open it, so Steve knocked.

 

An annoyed female voice crackled overhead. “That's not protocol.”

 

“What?” Bucky replied, baffled.

 

There was a loud sigh, and then the voice came again. “Didn't you read the manual?”

 

“What manual?” the Metal Man countered.

 

Bruce looked around, “I don't see any manuals around here...”

 

“Civilians; it figures,” the voice replied, taking on a sort of bland, rehearsed tone. “What's your authorization code?”

 

“My authorization number is…” Steve parroted back, and then tried to think. Had they told him any sort of code? He was supposed to listen when told things, follow orders, be a good soldier; the pressure of expectations tightened around his lungs and throat.

 

He could barely _breathe_.

 

“Um...”

 

He felt a squeeze on his back then, followed by a fast series of tapping; Steve tried to glance back, but he couldn't see the Black Widow in her current position. She clearly had his attention, though, so she started tapping out a rhythm.

 

The world around Steve went a bit fuzzy as he concentrated on the tapping; this was familiar. He could do this, “S 9 A 5 E 8 P N 2 T.”

 

His right side throbbed as the world came back into focus – there was a secret in the numbers; he could taste it on the shape of them, even though he couldn’t see it – and a tense silence fell over the group.

 

“Authorization code recognized,” the voice declared reluctantly, “Transport to the Carrier approved.” The voice cut out with one last 'pop', and then the loading ramp of the quinjet began to open.

 

As they walked on, the quinjet's pilot flailed, quickly hiding his toy and aspiration – a game of brave pilots defending against an alien invasion – then stood and faced them with an overly bright smile, to match his overly bright green uniform. “So, friends, where can I take you?”

 

Steve smiled, then walked over to shake the man's hand while everyone else got seated, because that’s was what he was expected to do; it was his job to be the one smiling, shaking hands, and kissing babies, his own thoughts and wants weren’t important, “We're here to see the Director, please. He's lost his heart-” he nodded to the Metal Man, “he's lost his mind-” he shifted to nod over at Bucky, who was puzzling over the harnesses, “and he's...” he nodded toward Bruce, then hesitated, and leaned closer to whisper, “he's looking for something that will help him feel safe and not be afraid anymore,” Steve straightened back up, and resumed a normal tone, “And I need to go home; I've got a date.”

 

The pilot looked intimidated at the thought of the Director, but nodded slowly, “The Director…? Yeah, okay... I guess I can do that. Sure. Strap yourselves in.” He turned to settle himself down at the controls, and Steve took a seat next to the Metal Man, careful not to lean back onto the Black Widow.

 

“You sure you don't want to get cleaned up before seeing this Director guy?” the Metal Man mumbled as the quinjet lifted off.

 

Steve looked at him in confusion, “No, I don't think so. Why do you say that?”

 

The Metal Man gestured at Steve's outfit, “You're looking a little rough around the edges there, 'Captain of America-land'.”

 

Steve looked down at himself; his uniform was blackened and torn in many places, caked with mud, streaked with blood reds and toxic greens, and there was a fountain of oily black bubbling from his right side. Between crawling out of the plane, the muddy no man's land, the forest, and the poppies, wasn't this right, though?

 

“I...” Steve glanced at the Metal Man, to try and explain himself, but his gaze slid back to the smear of black all down his side; it was thick, and now that he was looking at it more closely, it burned, but...

 

How had he gotten it?

 

“It...” The words, the explanation wouldn't come, and he watched as a fresh surge of black spurted out of his side, and felt hollow.

 

He didn't know.

 

He didn't _know_.

 

“It'll be fine, Tony,” someone with Steve's voice answered, and Steve felt his mouth move to match the sounds, then he slumped left onto the Metal Man's shoulder.

 

He had to go home. He had a date.

 

The Director would help.

 

* * *

 

 

An eternity passed in the time it took the quinjet to land, and Steve almost fell asleep.

 

Every time his eyes began to slip shut, though, someone would shift in their seat, or the Black Widow would flex her grip against his back, or he'd feel the touch of cool metal on his face, and come back to himself.

 

The quinjet set down with a series of loud 'clunks', then the loading ramp hissed open, and Steve wobbled upright again. The Metal Man looked at him, and Steve could almost see concern on the blank expression, but then Steve steadied himself, and the Metal Man turned away, striding briskly out of the aircraft.

 

“It'll be over soon, right?” Bucky asked as he joined Steve at his side, and Steve nodded.

 

“Of course it will; how much of the story is left?” Steve steadied himself on Bucky’s patchwork shoulder while his sudden lightheadedness passed, then turned it into a nudge to get him moving outside, and then started down the ramp himself.

 

All around them, people in every shade of green imaginable milled about like a giant beehive, with a buzz of industry to match. There was almost a song in it, a rhythm and melody to all the seemingly chaotic action, and Steve found himself swept away into it without his conscious knowledge. He was led around and turned about – pushed and pulled, jostled and guided; it was dizzying, and was going to make him _sick_ – until the only thing he could use to orient himself was the occasional pale flashes of Bruce's bare torso, the dark and mottled fabric of Bucky's uniform, or the bright red and gold shine of the Metal Man. The excitement around them grew and crested, until it spilled over, almost pulled them all under, and deposited the lot of them in front of a forbidding emerald door, so dark it was nearly black.

 

“I guess this is it, then,” Bruce announced quietly.

 

The rest of them nodded, and they advanced on the door as a single unit. Steve knocked again, since it'd gotten a reaction last time.

 

A small part of the door opened, and a dark-haired woman with a no-nonsense stare looked out at them, “What's your business here?” It was the same voice from before, the one that let them onto the quinjet. She’d not sounded very positive about them before, and she certainly didn’t look it now.

 

Steve put on his best smile – bright and wide for the cameras, everyone likes positive news from the front; it’s so easy even a monkey can do it – then gestured to his friends and himself, “We'd like to see the Director, please.”

 

She looked over the lot of them coldly, and sniffed. “The Director's not seeing anyone right now. Go away.”

 

Steve frowned and tried not to let the world fall out from underneath him; it was difficult to hold onto with his boots, but he didn’t dare take them off. “Please, it's very important that we speak with him. You see-”

 

“The Director gave strict orders,” she interrupted him, jerkily shaking her head from side to side, with the occasional diagonal thrown in for variety. “I can't let you in.”

 

Steve looked at her pleadingly, and for a moment she seemed to soften and melt, but she refused to relent, recrystallized. “I can't disobey the Director's orders.” Then she walked away from the little window, leaving it open.

 

He'd tried to hold it off, but the world slipped out from underneath him accordingly, and he slumped into a heap on the floor. “It's just... I had a date.”

 

Bucky, Bruce, and the Metal Man sat down beside him in commiseration; Steve lost himself in sorrow – for himself and his friends both, but who would find him this time, when his friends were just as lost as he was? – and he couldn't help but to feel guilty that he'd dragged them all along with him, only to fall short here, so close to the Director and help, so much so that it was a long moment before he realized the Black Widow had crawled off his back.

 

As soon as he realized this, the doors behind them opened, just enough for the Black Widow to come skittering back out on delicate legs, pointed like a tiny ballerina; she must have gone in through the little open window. Steve and the others stood, then he bent down to allow her to crawl up his arm to his back again, and nearly fell as that feeling of déjà vu came over him _again_. Something about the Black Widow?...

 

“Poison,” he mumbled to no one in particular, then straightened himself back up, and led their group through the open doorway.

 

The hallway beyond was dark, and the no-nonsense woman nowhere to be seen, though there didn't seem to be any side hallways – and that didn't make sense, Steve was fairly sure something about that was wrong, geometry, or architecture, or – so they just moved forward, into the Office of the Director.

 

A storm of fiery cursing erupted as they entered the room, terminating with an outraged, “Who let you in? I don't have time to deal with your stupid little problems right now! Go away!”

 

There before them was the massive image of a man, shrouded in darkness all around, but still lightly outlined in light. Steve couldn’t see his face, but it wasn’t difficult to imagine it scowling at them.

 

Bruce flinched away from the man’s – presumably the Director – violent tone, so Steve hastily stepped forward before his friend’s fear turned to anger, and the suffering of the entire Emerald Carrier through the force of the Hulk. “Please, sir, we need your help. You see-”

 

“Shut up!” the furious Director interrupted explosively; Steve could feel the heat of it burning on his face. “I've got bigger things to deal with right now than your little dramas; the Wicked Witch of the West has been terrorizing the whole country searching for some stupid 'thing' he supposedly 'needs', and I've got to stop that lunatic before he and his army starts killing everyone.”

 

Steve paled slightly, “Killing everyone...?”

 

“He's killed eighty people in the last 2 days,” the Director replied slightly calmer, then let out a huff; the Director broke into Steve's now racing thoughts – how long had he been in this place, and what army did the Witch have? – with a long, tired sigh, “You want me to help you? Fine. Bring me back the Witch's Glowing Staff of Death, and we'll talk.”

 

Steve's body went numb as the thought of _eighty_ _people_ – eighty too many – dead at the hand of the Wicked Witch of the West began to loop in his head; luckily he didn't need to feel anything to force his spine to straighten, pull his shoulders back, and declare a quiet, “Okay.”

 

“What?” Bruce asked, and made a show of cleaning his ears.

 

“I said 'okay',” Steve replied, and turned his attention back on his friends. “The Wicked Witch has been hurting people long enough; it's time we take the fight to him, and put a stop to this.” Giving speeches felt familiar, comfortable like an old childhood blanket, and he wrapped the feeling close around him, to try and push out the numbness.

 

“But he has an army,” Bucky pointed out, tilting his head lazily to one side. “It's not like we can knock on his front door.”

 

“Actually,” Steve replied, looking over his friends with a dizzy smirk, “that's exactly what we're going to do.”

 

* * *

 

 

Their flight away from the Emerald Carrier, into the heart of the land of the Wicked Witch of the West passed Steve by in a blur of color, light, and motion, until suddenly the group of them were spat out at a badly written signpost, trying to determine if the sign directing them toward the Witch’s castle was true, or a ruse to trip up invading forces.

 

“I say we go for it,” the Metal Man declared, then looked back at Steve, “You've got the thing he wants, right?” He waited while Steve nodded his head; had he mentioned that before? “Then he wants you to come, so he can take it from you. So let's go.”

 

“I don't think so,” Bruce disagreed, glancing around at the surrounding area uneasily; it was an admittedly unsettling sight. The area was all flat, bare rock, in a land of endless midnight; boulders of all shapes and sizes floated through the air, spinning listlessly, caught in the pull of magics unknown. It was a world completely and totally alien. Steve shivered, and his vision flashed blue momentarily, as he looked back to Bruce.

 

“I mean,” he continued, rubbing his bare arms to generate warmth, “he's been building up an army, right? So he could attack the Director; it wouldn't make much sense for him to make it any easier for the Director's spies to find his castle. He’s crazier than a bag of cats, sure, but he’s not stupid.”

 

“Or maybe,” Bucky spoke up into the silence that fell after Bruce's theory, “the signs are just there to confuse people long enough for them to be ambushed.”

 

As if on cue, the shriek of birds rent the otherwise still air.

 

Steve turned to gaze up into the sky, and the Witch’s army was already on top of them; they screeched and howled almost like monkeys, alien contraptions giving their malicious intentions wings, and armed to the teeth. Leading the group was something else, though; despite the dark purple feathers, he was clearly some sort of bird of prey – like an eagle, or a giant _hawk_ – with eyes consumed with empty, cold blue fire, and something in Steve ached at the sight of it. He didn’t have long to dwell on the moment, though, because at that moment someone took the whole world, _shook it_ , and everything was violent chaos.

 

It was difficult for Steve to focus, because his right side was aching like this was _familiar_ , and everything broke down into a series of snapshots. There was the Metal Man, taking to the skies to fight them on even footing with blasts of blue-white light, fiercely protective of his companions, then Steve himself putting his whole body behind a shield throw, then ducking out of the way of the nearly-decapitated body’s arterial spray – but wait, had they even had blood? – in order to catch his returning shield. One of the aliens, currently on the ground, grabbed Bucky by his left arm, but he simply gave the thread holding it on a quick, unraveling tug and pulled away; unfortunately for the alien, Bucky took its gun with him as he moved, spun around, and then promptly shot it in the face from point blank range. Normally inclined to avoid situations that resulted in conflict – because few things were _less_ safe than an active battleground – Bruce instead stood up, and up, and _up_ to these things that thought they could abuse his friends.

 

Steve had seen all of this, _done_ all of this before, with these people, even though he’d only just met them. Or thought he did.

 

This realization pierced deep into Steve’s awareness and lodged there. He staggered and put his hand to his right side, as if he might pull it back out, but there was nothing there, and that didn’t _make sense_.

 

That knowledge was important, and he needed to hold onto it.

 

Steve’s distraction made him an easy target.

 

There was a rush of dark purple swooping down on him, then suddenly Steve’s shoulders were filled with piercing agony – like a volley of arrows driven deep into fabric and flesh – and Steve was yanked up from the ground like an unruly marionette. Steve screamed; he wasn’t excessively heavy for his size, but that still left his 200 some odd pound frame dangling from the flesh of his shoulders – like a pig in a meat locker, and the thought of freezers just made it all worse – as the ground fell steadily further and further away.

 

He thought of fighting, and trying to pull free, but – 

 

_“If she'd fought them, they would have dropped her, and the fall would've killed her.”_

 

– so he’d wait; it was a sound decision, since he was incapable of flight.

 

Instead, he struggled to wait patiently through the flight, holding tightly to the knowledge that he knew his friends outside of this place, even as he choked to breathe around the pain this caused him, combined with the pain in his shoulders; his uniform was sticky with black and red fluids, and smelled of sickness.

 

The thought of sickness slipped through his grasp, so tight was it on his other knowledge.

 

So to the Witch’s castle they went, Steve, the hawk carrying him, and the Black Widow, still secretively clinging to his back.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve suspected that the method of transportation made the trip to the castle feel longer than it was, but he had no way to confirm that.

 

It was easier to focus past the pain – and he needed to not forget; it was difficult but important – if he was looking at one specific thing, so he kept his gaze focused on the hawk’s head above him; every now and then he could see the hawk’s eye, and there was something about the empty blue glow there that was wrong.

 

It was wrong.

 

Could it have something to do with the other realization he’d made?

 

Steve was distracted from pondering this potential connection too closely by their imminent arrival at the castle.

 

The ground was still too far away to fall to safely, but perhaps if he hit one of the castle’s balconies…?

 

The Black Widow suddenly tensed on his back – and Steve was glad, more than he thought he’d be, that she had been spared the hawk’s attack; that would have just been too cruel to the two of them – then suddenly crawled up onto the hawk and _bit_ him. The hawk seized like he’d been electrocuted and released Steve, who came to a tumbling stop on one of the upper balconies, while the other two came down on a balcony several levels down. Dizziness from the tumble combined with déjà vu, and Steve clutched his right side, around the nothing stuck there; it hadn’t been electricity, though, it was-

 

Steve’s lips formed the word, but no sound came out, because at that moment part of the Witch’s army that had been guarding the castle charged out onto the balcony, and Steve pushed himself back up to meet their assault. The balcony was a tactical nightmare – so easy to be surrounded here, or even worse, fall off, though no one would be reaching for him if he fell, at least – so Steve carefully pushed them back, turning their own attacks against each other more often than attacking himself, until they were bottlenecked in the doorway.

 

He didn’t stop there, though; he kept pushing them out and back, down onto a flight of stairs that seemed to float under their own power, too narrow for any of them to slip behind him. Steve kicked one of the still-warm alien corpses into one of the living ones – causing it to fall off the floating stairs with a loud ‘crunch’ – and tried not to worry about all of his friends fighting, while he was separated from them here, but then there was the sound of an explosion behind him, and an insufferably smug voice cutting through the sounds of fighting.

 

“The Captain of America-land has come to visit; what a _pleasant_ surprise.”

 

The aliens backed away, though they didn’t put their weapons away, so Steve turned to face the Witch standing above him on the stairs, staff in hand. Steve was supposed to be the man with the plan – stereotype and cliché, smothered in _expectations_ , and it would be so _nice_ to one day let someone else take charge for a while – but he was drawing a blank, so he needed to gather more information while he could.

 

“Witch,” he greeted, carefully flattening his tone to neutrality, no matter how much it tried to rise up at the thought of those eighty people, and more selfishly, of his impending date. His throat tightened a little as he tried to think of how long he’d been here, but he was drawing a blank; time moved differently here.

 

He could only pray that he wasn’t already too late.

 

“I grow so _tired_ of hearing that name; at every opportunity all I hear is ‘Witch’ this, ‘Wicked Witch’ that, with the occasional ‘Wicked Witch of the West’ at formal occasions. No more, I say.” He crowded in toward Steve, who stepped backward down the stairs accordingly; Steve worried about backing into the alien army, but no, they were moving back as well. The Witch smirked at Steve when they’d reached the main floor of the castle, “Call me… Loki.”

 

“Loki, then,” Steve agreed, covertly glancing around the room; his tactical situation was slightly better being on even footing with Loki, but this was strongly balanced out by being surrounded, with Loki’s staff – and the terrible, yet familiar power within it – pointed at his face.

 

“And what has brought you here to my castle, Captain? Are you here to give me what I need?” The thought seemed to please Loki, so Steve took an extra step back to be careful.

 

“I didn’t exactly come here on my own terms, so if you don’t mind I’ll-,”

 

“Oh but I _do_ mind,” Loki interrupted, staff poised to fire. “I would be _very_ upset indeed if, after you all but fell into my lap, I did not leave this encounter with my prize.”

 

“Isn’t this a bit extreme for a pair of boots?” Steve wondered out loud, looking around less subtly now for a piece of furniture, or anything really to help him escape from here – wasn’t there always supposed to be some conveniently-placed light fixture or something to help thwart the bad guy? – but there was nothing. The room went oddly silent at his question, though, so he looked back at Loki.

 

Loki was staring back at Steve, and it looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or scream, or both, “You think I have designs upon your _footwear_? Ridiculous; whatever gave you that idea?”

 

“You did,” Steve replied, frowning, effectively distracted by indignation, “You came right up to me and pointed at them.”

 

“I want the _Cube_ , you fool; you may have defeated the Witch of the East so it passed to you, but by all rights it is _mine_.” Loki sniffed, then straightened back from where he’d leaned forward during his little speech, “In any case, I did _not_ point-”

 

Suddenly there was a loud crash, and several members of Loki’s alien army came hurtling through the air to a chorus of enraged shrieks, followed quickly by the sudden appearance of the Metal Man, Hulk, and Bucky – who seemed to have gotten his arm stitched back on while Steve was separated from them – but Steve didn’t take advantage of the distraction like he otherwise would have, because his mind was stuck on the Cube Loki mentioned.

 

“But that’s not how the story goes,” he objected plaintively as chaos broke out in a contained space.

 

Had there been a Cube before? No, his mind supplied as all around him the colors began to run together. The toxic green of Hulk’s massive arms streaked behind his swings like streamers, while the Metal Man was a floating mass of red and gold fire, with the blue-white heart of a star – round, though, and not the right shade of blue, but there was a truth there Steve was missing – letting out the occasional solar flare to burn away the evil in this world. The dark of Bucky’s hair dripped down onto his shoulders, then sprayed forward as he was knocked back, falling down, out of Steve’s reach. It hurt, yes, that was true, but it was an old truth, and Steve could taste winter.

 

_This had happened before._

 

Steve could feel the rush of cold wind on his face even as two streaks of color – one a dark purple, the other black streaked with red – came to Bucky’s assistance. Loki – radiating green and black and rage, speared with gold and blazing _blue_ – swept into the melee, aiming at the whirlwind of toxic green Hulk had become, and suddenly the Metal Man was there, forcing the staff to point skyward and trying to wrestle it away from him.

 

Steve knew he should be fighting as well – he was a soldier, a weapon, a _tool_ , and what good was he if he wasn’t fighting? – but he was stuck watching everything pass him by, and then the back-and-forth struggle between Loki and Tony suddenly shifted, and Steve’s vision was filled with the round light powering the Metal Man, and the blue flare of power from Loki’s staff pointed right at his face.

 

 _That_ blue, powering –

 

Steve automatically brought his shield up to block the blast, and remembered.

 

White began to creep in around the edges of his vision, and Steve could feel the Metal Man’s heart in his hand, only this time it wasn’t round.

 

Without even looking down at the sudden weight in his free hand, Steve threw the Cube at Loki and Tony – and that probably wasn’t smart, he wasn’t supposed to give up what he won from the Witch of the East; it wasn’t how the story went – and now he’d never get home, but that was okay, that was right.

 

He’d make a new home for himself in this strange, new place with his friends.

 

Loki let go of the staff to grab the Cube, eyes focused only on the means of his revenge, and the Metal Man absently backed away with it while everyone else went still. Wrapped up in the blue glow, Loki smiled, and the glow grew and grew, until it was too much.

 

Consumed by the blue glow of the Cube, Loki burned.

 

The Wicked Witch of the West had only begun to scream when it was abruptly over, all that was left of Loki a puddle of ash on the floor; the light of the Tesseract folded in upon itself, and then it was gone.

 

“That was quick,” a familiar voice observed into the ensuing quiet.

 

A one-eyed man in black picked his way through Loki’s army – now broken, crumbled to dust to blow away on a non-existent wind – until he stood in the middle of the vague circle made by Steve and his friends.

 

“I’ll take that, if you don’t mind,” the stranger said, reaching for the staff still in the Metal Man’s hands, who promptly pulled away.

 

“And just who do you think _you_ are?” The Metal Man then held the staff up and away, above his head.

 

Steve looked at the man, silhouetted against the Metal Man’s light, and something clicked, “Director?” The white edging Steve’s vision grew brighter, and his right side ached again.

 

“I am,” the Director confirmed, glancing Steve’s way only after the Metal Man finally handed over the staff, “Everyone that comes to see me expects some kind of big show, so I indulge them; that way, no one pays attention to the man behind the curtain, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

 

He gave the lot of them a significant look, until they nodded, then folded his arms across his chest, staff suddenly gone, “Now, gentlemen; what were you needing?”

 

Steve opened his mouth to reply, then hesitated, so the Director turned to discuss Bucky’s missing mind; Steve could see the giant hawk – eyes now clear of that empty blue light – poised on Bucky’s right shoulder, and the Black Widow on his left while Bucky laid out his argument, and the feeling of déjà vu was back.

 

Steve seized onto the sensation – it was important for him to figure this out, _so important_ – and held a hand to his right side as the Director argued that Bucky had already found his mind, offering examples from the fight that had just ended and before – and how long had he just been watching them? – and Steve’s mind filled with thoughts of another battle.

 

There had been armored primates with wings and _spears_ –

 

The world tilted as the Director turned back to the Metal Man, musing over his supposed heartlessness, and Steve curled his hand around the shaft of the – of the _spear_ in his side, slippery with blood.

 

He yanked it out with a strangled whimper.

 

The Metal Man was watching him – and again Steve knew that there was something behind that blank mask, if it would just let him in – and Steve was helpless to do anything but listen as the Director tapped at the hole in the Metal Man’s chest, filled and fueled by vibranium, then asserted that the Metal Man’s heart wasn’t missing, he’d simply given it to another for safekeeping.

 

“ _The two of us will just have to have our own little movie date tonight instead.”_

 

The thick black gushed more freely from Steve’s side now that the spear was gone, an ever-growing puddle spreading around Steve’s feet which the Director hopped over on his way to the newly-returned Bruce, still shrouded in an aura of toxic green even as the rest of the background faded to an indistinct gray. Steve tracked the aura with unsteady eyes even as Bruce and the Director discussed safety, trust, and family. He almost smiled at the bright color curling through the air, until the talk turned to a history that made Steve sick.

 

Sick. Toxic.

 

“Poison,” Steve gasped, and finally remembered.

 

The white began to eat into his vision, until all Steve could see was Bucky and the Metal Man.

 

“You need to get home,” Bucky reminded Steve quietly, and began to fade into the white as well.

 

“You have a date,” Tony finished, fading as well.

 

Panic filled Steve, and he reached out with bloody hands, “But how do I find my way back?”

 

Tony laughed quietly, then reached out until Steve could _just_ brush their fingertips together, “You already know how the story ends, Steve. It’s time to wake up.”

 

As Steve’s vision filled with white for the second time in his life, he clicked his heels together and wished for home.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve opened his eyes with a soft groan, then slowly sat up.

 

Or tried to, anyway.

 

“Hey now, take it easy,” a familiar voice urged gently as a cool metal hand pushed him back down onto the bed.

 

Steve blinked in confusion for a moment, and then finally settled back down on the bed, in what looked like a private room in SHIELD medical. “Bucky?”

 

“The one and only,” Bucky confirmed with a cocky smile, which would have been more convincing if the dark circles on his ashen face hadn’t looked quite so much like a panda.

 

“You look terrible,” Steve concluded.

 

“Speak for yourself,” Bucky quipped back, and the two of them shared weak smiles.

 

“Weren’t you in Asia?” Steve asked when the silence had started to drag on too long.

 

“They called me back early,” he replied, suddenly unable to meet Steve’s gaze.

 

Steve blinked; that mission had been really important, if he recalled correctly. “Why?”

 

Bucky gave him a look, and for a moment Steve was sure he was going to slug him. “Because I happen to be the foremost expert on sick Steves. Punk.” He folded his arms with a huff, then looked toward the clock, then the door.

 

Steve cleared his throat quietly, and then shifted on the bed; now that he was paying attention, he could feel the tug and constriction of bandages wrapped around his stomach. “… How long was I out?”

 

“Almost a week; long enough that people were starting to get to the _really_ crazy ideas,” Bucky looked at the guilt-stricken look on Steve’s face, and softened his tone. “You scared us pretty good this time, Steve. I mean, Nat even threatened to start baking to de-stress. Nat _baking_ , Steve.”

 

Steve just nodded along to this, and Bucky clapped him on the shoulder and stood. “I’ll go tell everyone you’re awake, maybe grab some breakfast. Think your stomach’s up for food?”

 

He took a moment to assess himself, considering; he was a little nauseous, maybe, and ached, particularly around the wound in his side, but the worst had definitely passed by this point. “Yeah, I should probably eat. Maybe something easy, though?”

 

“You got it,” Bucky nodded, then slipped out the door like a panda-eyed shadow. Steve gave him a half an hour to an hour before he crashed, and crashed _hard_.

 

Fully expecting to be alone until Bucky returned or a nurse walked in, Steve was therefore surprised when the door opened again almost immediately, and Tony walked in. To the casual observer Tony looked like his usual put-together self, but Steve had given up ‘casual’ when observing Tony months ago. He looked worn around the edges – which, admittedly, wasn’t an unusual thing, but it _was_ odd in such a public space – and his shirt was on inside-out. Steve smiled at him.

 

“Hi.”

 

“Hey, you’re up.” Tony smiled at him and glanced around quickly, then quickly sat in the chair Bucky had just recently vacated. “I thought Barnes was on Cap-watch right now.”

 

“Breakfast,” Steve explained, and Tony blinked in surprise.

 

“It’s three in the afternoon.” Steve blinked at this, but Tony continued on before he could reply.

 

“Whatever. Anyway, how’re you feeling?”

 

Steve shrugged, “All right, all things considered.” He paused, “Actually, what all happened? I remember fighting, but…” He trailed off, thinking over what must have been just a dream.

 

“You took a poisoned spear to the gut. While you’re okay with most poisons, this apparently doesn’t extend to extra-dimensional flying ape-man spear poison.” Tony shrugged, and pulled out his phone to have something to do with his hands. “It probably didn’t help that I was distracting you.”

 

Steve was about to argue that it was his own fault for not properly paying attention to his opponent, when it occurred to him. “I missed our date.”

 

Something about the utter _disappointment_ in his tone caught Tony’s attention, and he looked up at Steve for a long, searching moment. “Well, we hadn’t really set a specific _time_ for the date… I mean, all I’d said was ‘tonight’, so… Tonight?”

 

Steve nodded and smiled, relieved. “Tonight.”

 

As if they’d been listening in at the door – and knowing the people involved, it was possible – the rest of the team came filing in at this point, all of them carrying some assortment of breakfast food despite the time of day. Steve settled in and let them fuss over him, each in their own way.

 

The low murmur of their voices began to lull Steve to sleep, long after their ‘breakfast’ had been set aside, and he felt a hand holding his. It was Tony, who leaned close to whisper in his ear. “Get some sleep, Steve. We’ll still be here when you wake up.”

 

“I had a dream about all of you,” Steve replied, surprised he could be so tired after sleeping for so long. He could barely keep his eyes open; all he could see was the indistinct white blur of the hospital room, broken up by his team, his family.

 

“You can tell me all about it this weekend. I’m treating you to a mini-vacation slash R and R. Just you, me, and somewhere with absolutely _no_ villainous primates, or trouble of any kind.”

 

“Someplace where there isn’t any trouble,” Steve mumbled back with a small smile, and fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The authorization number is a badly-coded message. 'Stork Tower' is not a typo. Spot the references.


End file.
